Spy Killer by L. Ron Hubbard

the killing of one of their people—and Varinka was certainly that.
    And now that Kurt had refused, Yang would kill him, having no further use for him. Again Kurt laughed. He had been a fool. The confession had meant nothing. Kurt would not have lived anyway.
    Pausing there in the shadow of the wall saved his life.
    From the next corner came the whisper of slippers on the paving stones.
    The Death Squad had tired of waiting.
    Kurt saw a black blot detach itself from the building ahead and start down toward him, groping along. Something shiny glittered in the outstretched hand.
    The man came slowly, a step at a time, undecided as to Kurt’s position. Kurt sank deeper into the shadow.
    The Chinese came on, an inch at a time. A shaft of light from a high window struck the untroubled face. The Chinese came placidly enough, unworried by his mission. Killing had become second nature to the Death Squad.
    Kurt drew out the automatic and determined to make a stand. Where were the others? Was this one alone? Did Kurt dare risk a shot?
    The ominous silence of Kalgan blanketed the street. The wind moaned a little around a corner. The sound of Kurt’s automatic slide sounded like a sledgehammer blow.
    The Chinese stopped, listening, probing the shadows with narrow, killer’s eyes.

    The sound of Kurt’s automatic slide sounded like a sledgehammer blow.
The Chinese stopped, listening, probing the shadows with narrow, killer’s eyes.
     
    Kurt raised the pistol, extended it to full arm’s length. The shadow covered the groove down the slide. Carefully Kurt compressed his whole hand. Odd how steady he was. He knew that he could not miss.
    Flame and sparks ribboned like a lightning flash. The Chinese cried out, threw up his hands and stumbled forward. His arms were down again, clutching his chest. His own gun clattered to the paving. He tripped and sprawled, spread-eagled.
    A shout came from the corner. Two men leaped into sight and came running. Kurt started to race away, and then knew that he would make too good a target out of his shadow.
    Kurt spun about and leaped up to the top of the wall. Broken glass had been set up in the cement to discourage robbers. Kurt’s hands were gashed into a slippery mess.
    But he had no thought of pain. He swung over. A gun roared below him as he crouched for an instant at the top, silhouetted against the sky.
    He dropped to the garden and whipped his way through a line of shrubs against the wall. Water shimmered in front of him. He skirted it, tripped on a loose stone, and for a moment pushed himself along across gravel on his hands and knees.
    The Death Squad had found the postern. Already they were hammering against it with their brawny shoulders. Kurt’s one thought was to get across the garden and over the other wall.
    He heard wood splinter and knew that the postern gate had given way. He scrambled through a flower bed and stepped through another pool. Before him, dimly seen, a one-legged iron stork gazed wisely at him. At his right a metal turtle seemed to bob up and down. But it was only the water lapping.
    Kurt reached the other wall. Feet were grinding the gravel paths in rapid pursuit. With only one thought—to get away—Kurt tried to scale the wall.
    He looked up then and his heart dropped within him. This was no wall at all, but the side of a house. There was no getting away.
    Men floundered through a pool and came on. Kurt turned to face them.
    The Chinese loomed hugely against the lighter gray of the far wall. But they did not seem to have faces or hands, only arms. They were great shadows come to life without wits, with only the will to slaughter. They knew that they had to be fast. The Japanese guard would be coming soon to locate the firing.
    With his back pushed against the chill stone, Kurt raised the automatic and fired.
    A shadow in the lead went down and stumbled back to splash into the pool beside the iron stork.
    Kurt moved hastily to one side. An answering shot whined